Blood of My Blood
by x.o.987
Summary: Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island prays to the old gods and the new to trade his own life for the girl he was sworn to protect. What happens when she wakes and finds a man who is not alive, and, yet, not quite dead?


It was cold in the main hall. Jenny of Oldstones caressed her elbows as her goosebumps rubbed against her linen nightgown. She exhaled her white breath against the blue light, watched it rise in the air. Above her head panels of stained glass traveled to meet the concave center of the ceiling. She was surrounded by empty wooden benches and elongated tables. The lords and ladies were long asleep, she thought to herself. And across the room stood the highest table for her father and mother. They, too, must have their eyes closed with bellies full of wine. She noticed the hearth behind her father's seat and walked towards the ashen remains of wood and fire. The girl's feet trembled under the cold stones. She cinched her toes together and braved the long walk from where she entered and to the place she had to go.

The snow roared outside, and Jenny could not see anything beyond the faint color of the glass. The girl remembered overhearing the servants talk about how this winter may last for decades, how the snow could fall a hundred feet deep and swallow all of them whole. But they spoke of fear, and Lady Oldstones wasn't afraid of anything. Still, the girl struggled to think of the last time she remembered being allowed in the courtyard. Everyone told her that her pretty little face would freeze to stone.

When she reached the hearth, her toes already numb, she knelt to the ground and searched for small rocks and rubble. Two pieces of jagged grey. The rocks felt cool in her palm. The girl closed her eyes and whispered a prayer before sparking a flame. As she was kneeling, the rocks between thumb and forefinger, her eyes concentrated on the flashes of light, her ears perked up to the footsteps in the distance. They echoed in the distance, and they took a slow, gentle gait towards Jenny.

"Ser Jorah," the girl smiled and then looked down to the rocks in her hands, "I was cold."

The lord's eyes twinkled under the moonlight, and she was reminded of a vast and boundless sea. He looked at her with concern, as he usually did; hands behind his back, shoulders bent in the way that most old men bend them to appear inconspicuous. He wore his padded leather armor and bearskins cape as though he didn't have time for sleeping-as though he lived his nights and days always ready for war. And the girl thought he looked so regal standing there, his valyrian sword by his side.

"Why not fetch a servant, my lady?"

"Father said the long night will come for all of us sooner or later. He said that I would have to retreat south, that I'd have to learn how to light a fire, skin a rabbit, wield a sword."

Ser Jorah chuckled and knelt beside her. He took the two rocks from her hands, "Forgive me for saying this, my lady, but your father worries too much."

Jorah lit the hearth with ease, "Are you proposing that I stay when the white walkers and wights and ice spiders tear this castle to pieces?"

The old man stared into the flames sadly, "You're the future of this house. How will you have your countrymen fight for you if you aren't here? How will your name survive without sons and daughters to carry it through the generations to come? Besides, maester Elwin suspects that the winter will end much sooner than we've expected. And the dead have not risen for thousands of years."

"True and wise as always, Ser Jorah."

His blue eyes seemed to glow as the orange warmth licked his face. Jenny couldn't bring herself to look away from him.

"Let me see your face, good ser."

They looked like purple and green flowers floating on a colorless stream from where the girl was kneeling. Along with the bruises, his face was cut open from the middle, revealing tissue and bone and flesh that seemed to turn black as the night. His left cheek was missing, Jenny noticed the tendons and nothing else. The skin above his right eye, too, disappeared, and his glimmering eyeball seemed to hang from its socket. But he didn't wasn't in pain. The old man stood before Jenny with his hands folded behind his back. He blinked a few times. His chest rose and then descended.

"You'll never leave this place, my lady," a small worm crawled out of his right eye socket, "This is your home, but it isn't mine. Please, _please_ let me go."

"You swore an oath to protect me. You promised you'd give your life for me."

"And my life is what I have given you."

"Where will you go? Who will accept your state, Ser Jorah?" The girl stood, taking a few paces away from him, "Not quite dead, and yet, not alive either."

Jorah looked hurt for the first time, turning away from his lady and staring into the fire. He clamped his mouth shut. He tightened his form. The old man looked into the flames and didn't know how to look away. A true knight. He swore to protect the realm with his life, and with his life, he paid the price. And here the result stood beside him, pale and small. She had always been small for her age, since she was an infant, her father could scoop her up with one hand. Jorah couldn't help releasing a small smile from his lips. He loved his friend and promised to protect his daughter from any harm. He would keep their family line alive, knowing that it meant his own legacy would come to an end. Still, he stood beside her. He gave her his life when her breath was nothing but small flutters dissipating in the December air.

"My job is done. You are safe."

"You've always had a talent for ignoring things you'd rather not answer."

"You are safe," Jorah repeated. He turned, planning to leave his lady by the fire. He wanted to return to his chambers, to lay down on his bed and pretend to sleep. His soul had traveled from the farthest corners of the castle to the dirt seven hundred feet under the old stones. He tried to leave the estate numerous times, but the farthest he could go were the trees beyond the old stables. The dead man was weary. When he traded life for his lady's, the lone knight thought he could leave, that the girl could move on and marry and have children and forget about the old man. She was young. She shouldn't be dwelling on the past, holding onto faces and voices with a tight grip.

"You fought something most knights could never conquer," she inched her open hands closer to the fire, "Illness. I remember hearing you coming into my chambers, feeling your elbows by my bony legs. And I remember hearing you whispering something. Praying, was it? And then I woke, and I remember seeing you, and the rosiness run dry from your cheeks."

Jorah did not speak. He leaned to his lady's side to pull her hands away from the fire, knowing that they would burn if she inched them closer.

"I looked at you, and I was looking at you for the first time."

The knight didn't let go of her warm hands.

"How could I find a husband who would trade his life for mine? Most would trade an arm for their legacy, two legs for a strong heir, their honor for glory. What would one trade for a girl?"

He caressed her small pinky with his, feeling the soft skin against his chalky bone.

"You are mine. You will always be mine," Jenny leaned on the soles of her feet to kiss his cheek that was intact, "By the old gods and the new, you shall never leave my side, even in death, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island."

Her knight frowned, trying to ignore the softness of her lips.

"The servants are afraid of me. The farmers, merchants, and peasants never come close to Morgan's Gate," Jorah said in one breath, "The villagers...The villagers are speaking tales about this castle, my lady. At this rate my presence will do more harm than-"

"The villagers speak of a vengeful knight that comes every blood moon, preying on the weak and the young, ripping bloody hearts from chests and eating them whole," the girl chuckled, "And they also talk of the wights from the north, the witches from the south, the dragons of the-"

"Jenny," He spoke her name without fear of rebuke, "Let me go."

Lady Oldstone stared at him. She buried her face in his hollow chest. She felt her tears burning at the corners of her eyes but she didn't want to stain Jorah's clothing. She wrapped her arms around his torso. Held his back with two hands. Jenny loved a deadman, but having him in her arms reminded her of the summer days when she rode deep into the Red Forests, the hot sun beating down on her, and she never felt more alive. This man was her life, she knew this much.

"My body is deteriorating, my lady. Soon enough, I will be nothing but bone and ashes, and I will have to leave you, whether it be by my choice or for the gods to decide."

"Don't leave, not yet. Not tonight," Jenny whispered, "Dance with me, Ser Jorah. At least let me believe that you aren't leaving me."

Jorah nuzzled his face into her hair, smelled the lilacs from the roots. How could he refuse her?

He took one step away from the fire. Jenny took another to the right. And then another to the left. They roamed the empty hall together, the girl humming a tune and giggling whenever she stepped on his sheepskin boots. He spun her around on the damp old stones, spinning her away from all her sorrow and pain. He laughed, too. He felt a joy shake his bones. He felt like a boy again. And he never wanted to leave her side. He didn't want to let go of her small fingers, knowing that if he did, his body could fall and crumble from anguish. He looked into her young face, and he didn't look away. Jorah gazed into her young eyes, remarking how the flames flickered and sparked auburn rings of light. And, suddenly, he knew what to do.

The deadman hummed to her tune, and he began to plant kisses on her neck. Jenny let his cold lips touch her flesh. She still swayed and spun as he leaned into her. The girl continued to sing when his lips reached the center of her chest. And, suddenly, she felt a sharpness digging into her skin.


End file.
